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three more, in a net or bag below the axle-tree, where they
lie half-suffocated with mud and dust. Exhibitors of Punch,
buffo singers with guitars, reciters of poetry, reciters of
stories, a row of cheap exhibitions with clowns and show-
men, drums, and trumpets, painted cloths representing the
wonders within, and admiring crowds assembled without,
assist the whirl and bustle. Ragged lazzaroni lie asleep in
doorways, archways, and kennels; the gentry, gaily dressed,
are dashing up and down in carriages on the Chiaja, or
walking in the Public Gardens; and quiet letter-writers,
perched behind their little desks and inkstands under the
Portico of the Great Theatre of San Carlo, in the public
street, are waiting for clients.

Here is a Galley-slave in chains, who wants a let-
ter written to a friend. He approaches a clerkly-looking
man, sitting under the corner arch, and makes his bar-
gain. He has obtained permission of the Sentinel who
guards him: who stands near, leaning against the wall and
cracking nuts. The Galley-slave dictates in the ear of the
letter-writer, what he desires to say; and as he can't read
writing, looks intently in his face, to read there whether
he sets down faithfully what he is told. After a time, the
Galley-slave becomes discursive - incoherent. The Secre-
tary pauses and rubs his chin. The Galley-slave is voluble
and energetic. The Secretary, at length, catches the idea,
and with the air of a man who knows how to word it,
sets it down; stopping, now and then, to glance back at
his text admiringly. The Galley-slave is silent. The Soldier
stoically cracks his nuts. Is there anything more to say? -
inquires the letter-writer. No more. Then listen, friend

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